


Hooking Love

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Escort Service, M/M, Prostitution, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:05:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate not to appear desperate, hiring a professional escort for a wedding date seemed like a perfect plan to Harry Potter. But there are prostitutes. And then there was Draco Malfoy. Harry never factored in sizzling sexual tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my current WIP. I have 7 chapters completed and will be posting 1 a week, every sunday, until I catch up, by which point I hope to have written more.
> 
> Any additional tags will be added as chapters are posted. If you feel I have missed out any, please let me know and I'll add them.
> 
> I'd like to add that this was inspired by 'The Wedding Date', a wonderful film you should all watch.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

**Hooking Love**

**Chapter 1  
**

"Profitable weekend, Draco, darling?" Pansy cooed, settling herself pertly behind her desk and slipping what was probably her fifth cup of tea back into its pristine, porcelain saucer. Draco personally thought the sickly rose pattern was slight overkill but then who was he to judge. She was the office snob after all, not him.

"Everything's wrapped up, money's already banked, glorified dinner and satisfying fuck to tie the pretty pink bow last night." She pouted her lips at him and puckered, 'oooh'ing as if she were actually impressed.

"As if that's any surprise," she snickered quietly behind her hand, dagger-length fingernails glittering a sophisticated nude-gold this frigid, winter morning. "I know you get caught in the moment but do try and remember you're a bit of a sure thing." She considered for a second, flipping her hair out of her eyes with more flourish than was strictly necessary. "Anyway, I've got the next business proposition lined up and ready. I assume that _is_ what you're doing dawdling in my office at this time day; cutting into my lunch hour as you are."

Draco relaxed back against the luxurious, cream material her sofa. Technically it was for the comfort of clients not employees but friends seemed to claim a few business perks in this office, free caffeine being another welcome addition.

Draco thought he preferred Pansy when she turned her considerably determined intelligence towards business affairs. She was a terrific, if terrifying, friend but unpredictable and Draco liked to keep some secrets, thank you very much, even if it was just so he could strategically and scandalously shock her publically at a later date.

"Working me to death, I see. Have I not earned at least a day off?" He glanced up at her through the fine down of his fringe hoping for sympathy.

"Oh no, dear. You don't get holidays. You are _paid_ to socialise and party and play the manipulation game, all things you were born and raised to do. That is your holiday. Now, your next client."

She swirled away from him towards the meticulously organised cabinet behind her. The bright glow of the sun caught her pitch hair for a second before her face was shadowed. The cabinet was dark mahogany like all the other furniture in the room.

The file she produced was thin, for the time being although Draco knew it would grow astonishingly quickly, and a crisp white. She slapped it down beside her tea with dramatic relish and wheeled herself elegantly back behind it. Draco, despite his blood relations and ridiculous amounts of high class training, had long since given up trying to succeed in that endeavour gracefully. He could keep a book perched atop his head steady an entire day or eat spaghetti without even a slurp or single spot on a fresh shirt but he could _not_ navigate a simple journey on a wheeled chair without looking like a turtle struggling for survival.

"I won't pretend he's upper-class, not by a long shot, but he's in with one of the old families. The Weasley's unfortunately but we can't all be perfect I suppose. Sounds more like the desperate, soppy puppy than you usually like but it'll be easy money and if he turns out to be a complete horse's arse in the face department you can feel safe with the knowledge that he's assured no intimacy. " She clapped her hands together in front of her smile as if she'd somehow snuck passed an army and stolen a goldmine; which was partially true he supposed.

"So this bloke is paying an extortionate amount of money just for my company?" He raised an eyebrow at her, not quite believing. It was definitely too easy. "So what's the catch? Is he old and arthritic? A librarian - they're always the dullest. Is he fat? Pansy you know I can't abide the athletically challenged." He chose to completely ignore the whine that snuck into his voice.

"No, no, dear. Well, I don't know about physical appearance but he didn't sound fat..." She glanced off to the side, thinking, before shrugging delicately and continuing. "Anyway, friend of the Weasley's and as you may have heard, since the papers seem to print anything these days although I suppose it was a titillating novelty to begin with, the youngest little prince is to be married at the end of this week." Her voice screeched in sarcastic excitement.

"Now, Mr Potter, our dear, dear client, is the best friend of both sides. Known since childhood they were apparently inseparable until..." She pouted in remorse, it confused him that he couldn't tell if it was slightly sincere or completely false.

"Until he became the third wheel." He smirked back, kicking one leg up onto his knee and sliding down further.

"Exactly. Now the way he explained it sounded pathetic but the general idea is he doesn't want them to think he's lonely - which he absolutely obviously is by the way - and start meddling in his love life - which might I add is completely idiotic because, as a sensible woman, I can quite clearly see an astounding amount of meddling is needed in this case and they must obviously be crap friends."

"So I'm to be the perfect date and belay their suspicions for a week turning Cinderella into the fairy-tale." He paused, pretending to consider although they both knew it was as easy as the job could possibly get. "It's obviously going to blow up spectacularly in his face but I have no qualms with helping him ruin his life. When do I meet him?"

"I love it when you're so rugged and direct, darling," she simpered, sliding her cool tea disgustedly further toward the edge of her desk. "Of course I knew you'd say 'yes' so I took the liberty of arranging a meeting at Fortescue's this afternoon. Three O'clock sharp. Don't be late. Harry Potter. Says he wears glasses and has a scar on his forehead." She twisted her pen nonchalantly between her fingers.

"Glasses!? No, he really is a nerd, Pansy," the whine was too obvious this time for him to ignore it so he added extra emphasis instead, hitching up the volume and pitch for effect.

"Don't whine. You're being paid. Now get out. And tell my assistant I want a new cup of tea. And I suggest she only add half a sugar _properly_ this time or she won't be scurrying about on the other side of that door tomorrow."

The back of her shiny head was enough of a dismissal but Draco always tried for the last word. So far he never had.

"I'm never rugged, Pansy; I'm handsome, irresistible and sensational but never rugged. And am I going on a play date or a business meeting, really an ice-cream parlour. God."

But of course, before the door could swing back all the way behind him she had to respond.

"You can learn a lot about a man by the flavour of his ice cream!"

* * *

The parlour was bustling when he arrived. Adhering to general etiquette rules of a first meeting in his business, Draco arrived five minutes early, already sure in his own mind that his client, unless ridiculously overconfident and a cock in general, would have been sweating it out for at least fifteen minutes in a shadowed corner somewhere. It would have been cruel to make him wait the customary ten minutes of a fashionably late entrance.

Draco spotted him almost immediately. He was predictably shuffling uncomfortably in a corner booth looking entirely like he was doing some unethical dealing, which wasn't exactly a lie if he was as sanctimonious as the guilt in his eyes claimed.

He was attractive, in his own way, Draco supposed. His hair was a frazzled mess, quite possibly, Draco thought as he sidled closer whilst his target dragged his fingers over his scalp, due to a nervous habit. His skin was golden although part of the healthy glow could be contributed to the nervous sweat that was breaking out over his broad forehead. He was clean cut apart from this, jaw taut with tension; clean-shaven thank god because really Draco hated having to play cutesy with a man whilst his stubble scratched half his face off.

There wasn't a single roll of flab to be seen or at least not from the decreasing distance of four tables away. But then again clothes could be deceptive. His hands were everywhere in his nervousness; fingering his hair, fiddling with the top button of his shirt (a washed out green that should have been flattering but made him look older and overly stressed) and twirling the plain, silver band on his right ring finger.

His nostrils flared slightly when his eyes darted to Draco before he dismissed him and his attention was grabbed by someone dawdling in the background. Conclusion: low self-esteem, thinks himself unworthy of being associated with popularity and confident persons; i.e. himself.

Draco couldn't help the little quirk of his lips.

He smoothed down the buttons of his pale blue shirt, which incidentally made his hair glow and his eye sparkle, and slid his fingers through his artfully tussled locks - 'don't look at me, Draco darling, or even I'd be tempted to shag you' - before sidling forward with an impassively polite smirk - best not to scare a client off with overconfidence - and an outstretched hand - with perfectly manicured fingernails of course.

The green of Potter's irises were electric and wide when they finally stopped stuttering about and met his own cool gaze. He twitched back in his seat before his brain caught up with the situation and general social etiquette. His hand was sweaty and spasming in Draco's own and it was pure actor's skill alone that kept Draco from sliding out of his grip and wiping his palm down the side of his fashionably dark jeans; sweat marks just were _not_ appealing and this man was about to pay him a mega-tonne in gold to be his companion.

"H-harry Potter," he stuttered, wriggling further against the cushion beneath his buttocks. His voice was deep but had a melodic softness that came with the slightly northern lilt; not that Draco was any good at geography.

"Draco Malfoy." He snapped his coat from his shoulder, magically materialising his wallet - suave Italian leather, tan. "Can I get you anything to eat? We are in an ice cream parlour after all." He flashed one of his quiet, dashing smiles.

"Shouldn't I be paying? I'm the erm...employer, aren't I?"

"Mr Potter...Harry, may I call you that?" Potter squinted up at him warily through his dense fringe, clearly sceptical. "While it is true you are paying for my time I need you to completely forget this fact." Frown wrinkles slithered across his forehead, barely visible but the squeezing of his eyes gave it away. "Excluding the conversation we will have when I whisk you away to buy appropriate attire for daylight, for all intents and purposes this is our first date starting when I sit down and blush as I hesitantly take your hand,." Potter took a breath as if to ask a question but Draco continued non-the-less. "You don't seem to have thought this through. You're going to introduce me to your childhood friends in less than a week. How well do you think they know you?"

"Better than anyone, of course!" Potter snapped back immediately with righteous outrage. Draco smirked - attractively.

"And because of Weasley's family and your 'tragic orphan saved' image, you're bound to spread rumours back to him through social interactions, even if you're unaware of it. Therefore, what do you think will happen when you show up with me at his wedding with no gossip to back up your 'love sick' status?"

"I...well...I'm not sure..."

"Trust me, Harry," Draco purred leaning forward suggestively, "I know what I'm doing. You're going to wish you had bought into my _entire_ range of skills by the time we meet your mates and they'll never know it's an act because, although it won't have been love at first sight swept up into a whirlwind romance, there will be lust, there will be heat and, by Circe, there will be sexual tension. Now, what ice cream do you want?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"What do you think?" Draco murmured from behind the finger that was glossing his lips.

"He's...honestly he's not your usual."

Blaise Zabini, current owner of 'Zabini and Sons' was a willowy man who could command the attention of any room he so chose even if he were crouched in a corner whispering through a silver-plated cushion. His dark skin always glittered, his eyes were sharp and always shone with a type of malevolent, twisted wit and his limbs were always precisely placed for maximum effect with minimum effort. At that moment, his thumb, circling where it rested against his cotton-clad thigh, told Draco that he was unsure of the moment.

'Unusual' would have been the right word for Potter too. Draco usually brought rich, slobbering fools of men who were too busy salivating over him and not paying enough attention to what Blaise was amassing up on their bill - not that Draco's conscience suffered any from the death of their brain cells or bank accounts.

"Yes, he is rather, isn't he? Maybe this is Pansy's version of kindness. Although I think you'll have more trouble than I will," Draco said, patting his fingers down across the fine creases of his trouser pockets and dipping his head towards where Potter was scowling at himself disapprovingly in the mirror.

"I'm not buying this ludicrous tat," he hollered back over his shoulder when he caught Draco's eye in the glass.

"Leave it to me, Blaise. Your personalities will clash horribly; folded pocket-handkerchiefs and ripped jeans don't bond well." With that he whisked himself forward. "What's wrong with it?"

"You've got to be kidding. When you said we were going shopping I thought you meant a smart tie or something, not... _this_!"

"What's wrong with it? A good sense of style and acceptable hygiene standards are essential if you want to be seen dating someone like me." Draco arched an eyebrow coyly and quirked a corner of his mouth. Potter gaped at him like a Neanderthal.

"So I need to buy a million times expensive suits to date a hooker?" Potter snarled, sway to the side and glaring at him straight in the eye. Draco thought it inappropriate timing to inform him this 'tat' actually complemented his eyes drastically well, so much so that they glowed, beastly, back at him from under the heavy shadow of his hair.

"Excuse me; I'm not some common street whore. I'm a professional escort and if you want the continued use of my expertise then you will look and behave like you deserve them."

"So why can't I just get a normal suit?" Potter was starting to whine and, judging from the twitching in his fingers and the tapping of his foot - while encased in black leather he had not even purchased yet - against the hardwood floor, the high class environment was making him antsy. Draco could feel the radiating tension from Blaise behind him over his four digit price tag shoes.

"This is a normal suit. You'll thank me when this is all over when you can find other dates. Trust me. Now I want to discuss your schedule. Because you are a moron, I will inform you that today is Tuesday and because you have left it to a ridiculously late hour I only have until Saturday to do some serious relationship damage control. So. Tomorrow I am taking you shopping in the morni-"

"What!? No, that's what we're doing now! We're shopping!"

"-ng before I pass you off in the afternoon for final groom-side fittings. Then in the evening we'll be making our big formal-wear debut, which believe me is the important one, where you're going to simper at me and I'll laugh at all your jokes. Then we'll progress until you're feeding me chocolate on a stick and I've shimmied into your lap."

"I'm not bloody kissing you!"

"Ugh, no," Draco shivered dramatically and thrust his nose into the air, "I haven't updated my rabies shot recently. No, we'll be conveniently halted in our heat by a passing waiter, who will have been artfully tipped in advance, who will ask us to extricate ourselves from each other for public decency. On Thursday," Draco continued trying not to hoot at the comic way Potter's face could not seem to settle on outrageously offended and bewilderingly relieved, "we'll meet for breakfast in a hotel restaurant. I believe you still have best manny things to do so you'll have the day to yourself to do whatever the Weasel has misguidedly trusted you with. In the evening, you will surprise me with theatre tickets. We will hold hands through the whole torturous ordeal and whisper sickeningly into each other's ears with secret witticisms."

"You've got to be joking."

"If you want to do this you have to commit. I can't work with you if you're half arsed. This is a business transaction after all. On Friday I will be mysteriously absent at the rehearsal, both dinner and ceremony, however, once I am absolutely certain that the groom is plastered enough that he won't pick up on how we're not licking off each other's faces and rutting on the dance floor, I will arrive fashionably, horrendously late to the stag do. We will drink and be merry. I may even smack your pert, little bottom. We will frequent dark corners and, should the opportunity arise, sneak off like teenagers to alleyways and bathrooms where I will make you look thoroughly shagged by not shagging you. Any questions?"

"Have you ever pole danced?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Draco slammed his hand on his hip and cocked his head, puffing at fly away hairs. "Wedding day is the obvious. I just can't picture you as the dominant, pin-me-to-a-wall type; you will make doe eyes like your life depends on it while I seduce you with my body, which is probably the one thing about this week you shouldn't be worried about. Now are there any _real_ questions?"

"Are we going to have to slow dance?" And suddenly Potter looked worried. Of course, Potter would never know how to slow dance; that would have made Draco's job far too easy.

"Most likely, yes." Draco replied with the best 'you're an idiot' face he could pull - admittedly he was thinking of the look Pansy gave him half the time he was in her presence. "And even if you get out of it with me there are mothers and sisters and aunts to escape from after. Have you ever been to a wedding before? Is there a problem with that?"

"Well..."

"No, don't say it. Let me guess, you don't know how? Why is my mind not exploding?" Draco's brain felt like it was starting to boil from the annoyance. Flashes of his mind working at top speed lead to a solution quickly. "We can probably squeeze some lessons in Friday morning before the play-dates. Are we all clear? And you've arranged payment with Pansy? I don't strain my heart for my own amusement, you know."

"Yeh. Yeh, it's all sorted out."

"Right then. Now you've finished being a completely monosyllabic and unnecessary part of this conversation, we should part. I have arrangements to make and waiters to bribe."

Draco whirled with a sort of dramatic effect one might imagine a cape to assist with and glided back to where Blaise perched against his till point, pretending valiantly to be writing down measurements. "Lovely to see you, as always, Blaise. Give my regards to your mother."

He strode to the door, head held high with purpose, before pausing with his hand left tentatively on the glass.

"Oh, and Potter? Buy the damn suit." He said, thinking that actually it was rather nice to have the last word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a livejournal. Updates can be found there.  
> Username: darkravenwrote
> 
> Hope you enjoy and please leave a comment if you have time.

**Chapter 3**

"I look like a complete idiot," Potter muttered beside him through gritted teeth, smiling up at the hostess so sickeningly sweetly Draco thought his teeth might melt. He was twiddling with the black cuff of his semi-formal suit jacket and scuffling the pitch leather of his new loafers, incidentally making Draco's toes curl in sympathy for them.

"As per usual, yes. But your imbecilic appearance has nothing to do with my impeccable fashion sense and more to do with your borderline mutant genetics," Draco replied, flicking artfully at his sculpted hairstyle of choice for the night and pouting dashingly at the incompetent woman in front of them. Five minutes for a table? God help the catering sector if they thought the elite class would suffer such ineptitude.

"I'm wearing a fucking petticoat!" Potter hissed at his like steam was escaping violently from all available orifices.

"A pet...Don't be a common pleb, Potter. It is a _cravat_. Only the very finest of gentlemen wear them and there was reasonable doubt you would receive a warm welcome when we approached this establishment for their services." Draco nodded decisively and brandished his most gracious flourish, internally disgusted by the quiet swoon that swept dangerously against her natural balance in return, and followed the hostess in all her unbalanced, short-skirted - really, was that sexy? - glory through the sparse but tactfully tasteful restaurant to a small, secluded booth near the foyer. It was open enough and precisely situated so that people entering would catch a glimpse of them, be it tittering secretively at one another's' witticisms or intimately brushing each others' fingers, before they were seated out of sight.

"Well I feel like it's choking me and people are _staring_." Potter was leaning threateningly toward him, perhaps in the hope that he would sink into the plush, stil de grain yellow carpet, and buzzing noisy tension straight into his brain.

"Just think of it as a tie, you dolt, and give the nice lady your coat," Draco enunciated back clearly with as much condescension as he could muster and a sharp nod at the gleaming black number slung haphazardly - and really wasn't that breaking any number of laws in itself - over one arm. He rolled his eyes dramatically at Miss-Crimson-Tart-Fish-Lips and murmured like it were in confidence and a thrill just to be able to smell her perfume that close, "You just can't get the breeding these days, I don't know how my mother expects me to put up with him for more than an hour." In reality, Draco found Potter's uneasiness and complete failure to adapt comical and, dare he say it, possibly charming in a naive, sweet sort of way. And her perfume smelled like vomit-inducing, rotting flowers.

Potter flurried to comply and lowered himself gingerly down into his seat, looking for all the world as if he expected it to snap shut and eat him as soon as he settled on the delicate pattern. Draco neglected to mention it was the loose tongues and whirring brains of the patrons and staff that he should be more worried about and, in an effort to stir the imaginations of everyone watching, he slid the tips of his fingers around the velvety shell of Potter's ear in a teasingly light caress as he brushed passed. The usual shiver he received in response was absent and for a moment, brief though it may have been, Draco thought he had done it wrong somehow - if it were possible for one to stroke one's partner incorrectly. Then he saw the deep, dark shine of Potter's eyes and decided they needed to order more expensive wine if he was going to remain unaffected and unobtainable for the evening.

* * *

"What colour did Miss. Granger decide on for the wedding party in the end?" Draco enquired politely as he fluttered his napkin skilfully back down beside the empty gold-leafed ramekin that had held his winter fruit soufflé. He glanced doubtfully at his half full wine glass and wondered, through the fog that was building exponentially in his mind, whether one of the kitchen staff had laced the bottle with something.

"You don't want to know," Potter muttered from beneath his fringe and fluttering eyelids. His head was resting in his palm; elbow perched precariously on the table edge and threatening to pull his half finished tarte tatin unceremoniously into his lap. Draco thought about swiping the supporting pillar out from under him, as his father had once done to enforce his table manners, just for the novelty value.

That was the moment he realised he was drunk.

Or maybe it was when he said, "but enough about the wedding, Potter. We're meant to be here on a date, fake though it may be." He leered at Potter as obviously as he could without contorting his features into a resemblance of Frankenstein. "Therefore, in approximately thirty seconds I am going to slip off my shoe and skim your leg." He had deepened his voice, a practised art of his trade, and he knew his eyes must have been sparkling devilishly from the concentrated dim of the chandelier above. Potter was still and silent as if struck by lightning and the meaning of life all at once.

"But there's no tablecloth..." Potter wheezed, a small sound that caught in his stomach and throat, after a seconds pause.

"Exactly."

The brush of tailored cloth against his sock was thick and heavy, heady even. This power he had suddenly found over Potter was intoxicating and he wondered, as he slid his toe beneath the fabric and pressed steadily against the jut of Potter's ankle, how far he could push Potter before he realised that this was exactly what he was _not_ paying for. Physical intimacy was a 'no-no', Pansy had said. Well, Draco would prove to her that even the most proud; even the most spirited could be tempted from the path of righteousness. Even Potter, innocent, naive Potter who thought he knew how the world worked but might as well have been raised by kittens, could fall for his charms.

This was the part of his job that Draco loved. The chase. The hunt. The passion.

He would be the perfect boyfriend for the week Potter had hired him. He would hold his hand and simper and purr. He would whisper sickening nonsense and lead him around the ballroom dance floor to the waltz of true romance. But he would make his own amusements while he did it. He would seduce Potter so thoroughly in his game that he would be addicted. Then he would take Potter to his bed and charge him his entire bank account and Potter would be so enthralled he would never regret it.

He blinked coyly at Potter as the tip of his toe touched scorching heat at the juncture of Potter's thighs and knew that he was already halfway there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, I completely forgot about actually posting!

**Chapter 4  
**

When Draco arrived at the hotel, thoroughly intent on furthering his cause, it was with the kind of debauched look that one usually keeps secret within ones rented room. Which was entirely the point, of course.

He wanted to make sure that when the early rising businessmen, with their stiff suits and hair slicked preposterously, ventured down from the crack of dawn for their hastily gobbled of breakfast, they would see his swollen and gleaming lips, luscious and pouting at Potter across the table. He wanted the put-together women, with too much money to know what to do with other than spend it on hotels so they wouldn't have to amuse their husbands with boring, repetitive sex at home every night, to see the kinks in his hair and the wrinkles in his day old shirt when he sidled closer to Potter's side - although in all honesty the slight musky scent of day-old-shirt was actually tickling his gag reflex. Disgusting. He felt like a tramp.

And he wanted all of them to sit there with their toast and crumpets and useless pea-sized spoons for jam and wonder what he was doing with Potter last night. He wants them to ponder on whether they spent the entire night whispering lovingly into each other's ears and cuddling under the blankets; or whether he worshipped Potter's body atop the bed with deep, passionate kisses and an intimacy they could be jealous of; or whether he let Potter fuck him desperately against the wall and in the shower and on a sweat covered bed until the pre dawn was lighting the sky outside.

Potter trudged up to his side, thankfully following his advice about the side entrance, and Draco found himself grateful that he really was so predictable. His hair was as aptly shagged as ever and his eyes were hooded with sleep. His jeans were ratty and his t-shirt looked like it should only be suitable to sleep in - although Draco's coming to understand that Potter probably thinks it _is_ perfectly acceptable to been seen out in public in such rags. Draco made a mental note from then on to spare a small amount of effort towards correcting him of this assumption.

In short, he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Which, coincidentally, suited Draco's purpose just fine.

"Good morning, Potter," Draco said casually, sliding his finger's around the girth of Potter's tan wrist and pulling gently. "Are we ready to traverse the walk of shame for the morning after breakfast with me?" The question was rhetorical and he quickly began dragging Potter bodily towards the hotel reception.

As soon as the deep red of the public entrance came into view he gentled his hands. His smile was coy as they slunk past the receptionist - a slight woman with a nasal voice who coughed politely into her hand to cover her flush and secret smile, Draco was just disgusted that a hotel of this calibre would hire such a moron who couldn't even keep track of who was staying in her suites.

By the time they were strolling through the open double doors of the restaurant and into the scents wafting enticingly through the air, Draco was pawing at Potter and gushing sickeningly into his ear. Potter was looking at him from the corner of his eye; like his melodramatic version of 'in love' would never fool anyone. Well, Draco would show him. Not only that, but he would make Potter fall for it as well.

Draco's luck seemed to be exponentially building as time went by because they found seats at a small round table with a single bench in a comfortable little corner. Draco smirked and promptly plonked himself practically on Potter's lap without ceremony. Potter just snorted back a laugh into his ear like the entire charade simply amused him and he wasn't paying an escort for his own social benefit.

Once the waitress had disappeared in a whirl of bright pigtails Draco decided it was time to strike up a conversation. "Tell me, Potter," he murmured, stroking at his ear and glancing bashfully at the couple sitting a little way away - and really fate must be on his side because from his research he could have sworn the slouching, half-awake man was Lee Jordan, close family friend to the Weasleys. Glee swept through him, pumping adrenalin through his system. Potter didn't seem to have noticed him yet though, he was still staring trustingly up at Draco's gleaming cheek, his mouth slightly open and his fingers picking at the croissant that had been slid in front of him.

"What do you plan to do after the wedding?"

That stilled Potter's wandering fingers.

"Well, I guess we'd have a massive argument," he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly, and dislodging Draco's fingers in the process. Draco latched them onto the messy tendrils of his hair instead, tugging gently and twirling absent-mindedly as he considered the man next to him.

"So, you're actually gay then? Or was that some sort of safety net?" His other hand landed not-so-subtly on Potter's thigh. Jordan, a quick peek from the corner of his eye told him, had noticed them. And Draco's hand. His brow was crinkled into a small frown and for the first time Draco wondered what Potter had actually told his friends; whether he was going to be a bit surprise to the drunken party or whether he would be welcomed as a long-term resident that Potter could _not_ shut up about.

Potter steadfastly ignored him for a second before the slip of Draco's fingers on the heated skin of his leg - maybe ripped jeans weren't such a moronic idea after all - inched painfully closer to his crotch encouraged a gurgled growl from his throat. His entire lower half jumped at the movement and Draco knew he had his answer.

"And how long do they think you've worshipped the ground I piss on?" he asked, leaning forward minutely. His lips, still bruised and wet from the constant application of balm he had applied vigilantly for an entire hour before his meeting commenced, hovering over the sensitive skin just below Potter's ear.

Jordan was down right staring now. Transfixed...or horrified, Draco couldn't tell.

"A while," Potter yowled quietly as Draco flicked out his tongue to nudge at the lobe of his ear. His breathing was huffing from his mouth in divine, little puffs, hissing through his teeth. They scraped lightly against Draco's fingers when he rolled some of the sweet pastry onto his twitching tongue.

"That would have to be a pretty dramatic performance of an argument then, wouldn't it? If we're so in _love_ and all." He settled his mouth into the curve of Potter's neck. He was sensitive there. But then most people were, in Draco's expert experience. He sucked and gnawed as hard as he dared until Potter began stuttering; much to his amusement.

"S-sorry...what?" Draco could not help the smirk of satisfaction that curled his lips and graced Potter with a gentle kiss at his clavicle as reward for his comedy value, drawing one hand over the collar of his _God_ -awful shirt for the access. Really, he should be getting paid extra just for touching the disgusting thing let alone the fact that he had just kissed Potter...

Wait, what?

Potter wasn't meant to want physical contact and yet here he was letting Draco fondle his neck. Draco realised the moment was quickly growing from an intimate display of innocent affection to heated and lusty. Even his heart was pounding in his chest.

"When we break up. Ready for your real relationship in the big, bad world. We'd need to make it pretty convincing." Potter was shivering beneath him, completely undone by the constant caress of his whispering lips.

"Yeh," he breathed, " I suppose we would."

And Draco wanted to shoot himself for the glimmer of happiness that sparked to life in his gut at the disappointed note of his voice and lowered eyes, darkened with lust though they were. He was a professional, dammit, not a love-sick puppy. Potter was the one falling here. Not him.

He ripped his mouth from the sweaty salt tang of Potter's skin in favour of his fresh orange juice that had been abandoned by the flustered waitress in the face of his libido. His brain was suddenly whizzing confusedly. Draco did not like it.

But on the upside, Jordan looked like he could catch flying pigs between the space of his gaping jaw.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"This is ridiculous. Pansy, I'm not ten years old any more. You don't need to dress me!" Draco snapped as Pansy Parkinson brushed her hands sharply down the front of his deep navy dress shirt. She hummed approvingly, her fingertips skimming appreciatively back up to his shoulder, her nails not catching once on the pressed silk.

They were a modern purple today, that shimmered under the low lights of her office as it appeared in the early evening. The clock had only just struck six, signalling one and a half more hours before he was due to chivalrously appear at Potter's doorstep to review his clothing of choice and then whisk him away for a night of bewitching music and entertainment.

Or, in Draco's case, appreciative boredom. Operas were all the same now. He had learned to see the skill involved and he could understand why some people would love the atmosphere and possibly even the yowling 'singing'. In fact, for the sake of his father, he had even learned to act as if he enjoyed the experience. But now they just blurred together. Monotonous.

But all of high class society would be there. Tonight was opening night after all. La Traviata. Because he hadn't seen _that_ before. But Potter was uncultured. He would be suitably mystified and impressed.

And he was paying anyway.

"I'm glad it's not too blaring. You seem to be picking up bad habits." She followed the seam of his sleeve over the slight swell of his bicep and the angle of his elbow to the knob of the cuff links he had already threaded through. "But I don't like these."

"They were a present from my mother," he groused at her behind him.

"Oh, Narcissa, how could you," she murmured, plucking the first mother-of-pearl link from his clothing and smacking it down on her desk. She made short work of the second as well. "We all have our little flaws, I suppose."

She slunk to her bookcase beside the plush sofa and flicked through the books, miraculously magicking a small, velvet box out of thin air.

"These would suit your style much better, darling. Less mumsy." She flicked open the lid to reveal black obsidian with a pure white lining that matched the stitching of his buttons perfectly. The shape was some technical, angular thing he wasn't quite familiar with. Or completely comfortable wearing.

But if Pansy decided not to pick up on the upset line of his mouth then he wasn't going to interrupt her creative flare. Mainly because he was scared of her.

She wove them into his shirt with practised ease and delicately scooped up his jacket from where it hung on the back of her office chair. He slipped into it gracefully, feeling a small speck of pride at his being able to do something as suavely as Pansy, even if it had taken him a lifetime to perfect the art.

"How's it going then?" she asked, brushing invisible lint off the light padding on his shoulder.

"The easiest you've given me in a while, dear," he replied batting away her hand as she went for his hair. Then swiftly aborting the motion at her narrowed her eyes immediately. "In the palm of my hand, in fact."

She hummed along with him while continuing to pat at his various features.

"It's like sweet talking my mother into afternoon tea. Absolutely hot for me. I thought you said he wouldn't be touchy-feely. I must really be irresistible."

"I can see your nose growing, darling," Pansy tittered, her palm smoothing over his backside. He resisted the urge to hop forward and _away_. "Maybe this is too easy for you."

"No, no. It's nice to have a holiday. I shan't be ungrateful to you ever again."

Pansy paused. He could feel her muscles locking behind him, her fingers still splayed on his upper thigh, twiddling with the distinct crease in his trousers.

"Anything else?" She breathed quietly.

"I can't have told you about this morning yet. This will have you giggling in that little chair of yours until you tip over. You remember Lee Jordan? From the file? Potter's face was absolutely precious. Mouth wide open! Think Millicent Bulstrode when that snake landed in her greasy excuse for a hairstyle. Absolutely precious. And then-"

"Draco."

She caught his eye. They were dark and narrow, verging on squinting. There was a hint of challenge and danger. And she was frowning. Which was always a bad sign. Frowning was always serious because Pansy never wrinkled any part of her face unless she could absolutely help it. Apparently lines were only attractive on her mother.

"Are you sure you're not in too deep?" She was being his serious friend slash boss now, which was in no way his favourite version of her. A serious Pansy Parkinson was even more terrifying than a professionally distanced Pansy Parkinson. Her voice was harsh against his ears, her fingers still frozen at his out-seam.

"This is easy, Pansy. Playing the plebeian couldn't be going more smoothly. He's falling faster than a piano."

"He is." She said, low and disbelieving. He could sense that she was waiting for him to continue into some self-deprecating, self-incriminating trap but he wasn't sure how.

"What do you want me to say?" He spluttered out a severely uncultured laugh.

She considered him for a second, stepping back from his person and _finally_ removing her clinging fingertips. "I'm...worried." She said. "You've never shown this much...interest...in a client before. Never. Have you heard yourself. Practically vomiting words!"

There was a twitch in her eyebrow. Probably because she hasn't blinked for a full two minutes.

It was strange to hear Pansy flustered, because that's exactly how she sounded. Wrong in fact.

"I think you need to stop worrying, honey," Draco huffed, distracting himself with one of his new cuff links to stop himself thinking about what she was actually saying. He resolutely refused to look anywhere but at her face just in case his expression self-willed itself to 'passive' and 'thoughtful'.

"I'm just...what if you-"

"I don't fall in love."

He made for the door; aggravated and anxious and refusing to look back at Pansy, mainly to avoid seeing whatever expression she was pulling because he was entirely sure that by this point in the conversation she would have drawn her own preposterous conclusions. He was also sure he would neither like them nor agree with them.

"Who said anything about love?" She called pointedly before he could quite shut the door in time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget I know have a LiveJournal under the name 'Darkravenwrote' for update information or just to generally see what I'm up to.

**Chapter 6**

The problem with Shakespeare was that his works were ridiculously absorbing. Draco was quickly reminded of this once he settled on the black monstrosity of a leather divan his father had insisted on purchasing and situating with an air of perminence in his entrance hall, ' _fashion, Draco, high society has fashion,'_ like he didn't know how to accessorise for a summer garden high noon tea. Obviously he had protested vigorously against the offensive furniture – to his mother! He wasn't nutters, thanks – but was instantaneously rebuffed; ' _Draco, darling, what will your clients think when you entertain them in your home with only wooden floors and that ugly, infected plant to welcome them. Reviews of your work will suffer, dear. Your profession requires_ _ **class.'**_

Of course, what Narcissa Malfoy did not know was that her son was, in fact, a high-class escort and _not_ a renowned finishing tutor. But, really, looking at Potter, he might as well have been.

And he would be absolutely bloody marvellous at it as well if he should so choose to switch occupations.

As it turned out, _The Taming of the Shrew_ was verging on enchanting and when he next glanced at his watch he seriously considered launching into a heated argument with it about accurate timekeeping before slamming his book -his very _old,_ very _expensive_ low numbered edition – shut and striding with definite purpose toward the guest bathroom, which was tastefully hidden with a delicate Baroque tapestry that matched the meditative neutral of the rest of the room, to check the parting of his hair one last time. Slicked but messy side sweeps were in vogue. Comb overs were a serious mistake marking loss of both vision and sanity and one should save oneself all further embarrassment via shaving one's head post haste.

Draco was frankly terrified of the second coming to pass. With any luck – read: dedicated maintenance and proven luscious lock hair genes – Draco had many years of floppy cuts and ingenious manipulations ahead of him.

The telephone call to Potter was short and concise, consisting of little more than a veiled apology, – thickly veiled, in fact, more like shag carpeted over – strict instructions and a sharp warning related to dress and inappropriate colours.

The theatre, lit up with the necessary first night lights and fanfare, was bustling with bristling fur coats, sparkling diamonds swinging like millionaire's pendulums out for their annual tout and flapping coat tails.

Everything was perfect. The low percussion music over the quiet rumble of conversation, probably consisting of gloating and questionably subtle bragging in the male corner and the light titter of the newest scandalous gossip in the female, and the distant tuning of the multi-tiered orchestra. The breeze rumpling through the foyer and across the grandiose, low flight of stairs up to the lounge and bar that stalled off the late evening flurry of warmth that had surprised everyone when it blew in from the south. The low lighting, tinged a fragile, elusive pink, was inoffensive and strategically mood setting.

Perfect.

Except for Potter.

Who was missing entirely.

Non-existent.

Lacking in presence.

Lost.

' _Seven forty-five, Potter. You hear me? Lateness is unacceptable. Be at the doors at precisely seven forty-five or you and I shall be having words.'_

He had said.

Seven forty-five.

And where was Potter?

Absent.

Vanished to Neverland.

It was enough to drive a man to drink. Speaking of which, the bar was mercifully empty, save for a few settlers, and when one's date was late it was perfectly acceptable to buy them their first beverage of the evening during the wait.

"Your finest champagne, good sir," he ordered when the bartender smiled at him; a little to flirtatiously to be thinking he would make this his long-term career.

He perched on a bar stool while he waited, fully aware of all the other backsides that had perched just so in the past. A whiff of aftershave wafted under his nose and he couldn't help but drag it in, like the post-coital puff of a cigarette, and hold it there. Deep and musky. He waited until the scent had thoroughly faded before letting the air whistle out from between his teeth.

"It's seven forty-seven," a harsh, gravelly voice rasped lowly beside him making Draco's heart bound its way uncomfortably up into his throat. Because he knew that voice. He almost swore. Colourfully and loudly. In public. Which was unacceptable. What the fuck was Potter doing to him?

And he had _not_ been there seconds ago, he was sure of it. He would have noticed him. Jesus Christ. And when he looked, actually _looked_ , he saw why!

This close it was all subtle shifts; the straightness of his back without being forced, firm but not stiff; the tilt of his head that was near arrogant but still skimmed this side of the line labelled dashing and handsome. His suit was the exact midnight shade of his hair except the glinting buttons that teased their way down the pitch of his shirt.

He looked nice.

Like a gentleman even.

Fuck it, he looked gorgeous.

Shaggable.

It took Draco a disgustingly long amount of time to formulate a catty enough response to bother giving voice to it. Yet still. Weak!

"And _where_ exactly is your tie?" He scowled with exaggerated malice, sliding closer so as to make their private spectacle appear more humoured to the outside eye.

"Hermione said I didn't need one," Potter shrugged nonchalantly and dipped nimble fingers into Draco's inside jacket pocket, snagging his wallet playfully and completely ignoring the parted gape of his mouth. He flicked some notes, thus far an unidentified amount and what the hell was going on here, at the bartender before slipping it back to its rightful home on Draco's person – _Draco's_ Wallet! - and tapped his chest, Jesus right on top of his nipple and two layers of best quality fabric just made it so much more titillating. "Thanks, sweetie," he smirked, saccharine, and absolutely for their one man audience.

Who the _hell_ was seducing who here?!

"Hermione?" He grouched quietly as their sparkly eyed voyeur moved away. "I have seen photos of your _Hermione_ and she has no right to give anyone fashion advice. If I see even a hint of that top button slipping undone, so help me, you will be wearing a sock in place of a tie. ' _Hermione said I didn't need one.'_ It simply is not done, Potter."

Click. Granger. Granger had meddled. Somehow, between giving terrible fashion advice, that admittedly could have persuaded Potter into a nun's knickers but was totally inappropriate for the current occasion, date-impressing tips she had wheedled her way into Potter's head and convinced him to up his game with...with...with cheap tricks!

But Granger didn't know that he was an employee, not a lover. A fact that Potter also seemed to be forgetting as well if he was actually listening to her, above and beyond their little façade of pretend-we-are-reality.

Potter was supposed to be the _seducee_ , falling into Draco's game, amusing him while he worked. Besides, Potter didn't need to start taking that sort of lead. If he wanted to bed him he merely had to ask and produce more gold. Simple.

He was about to continue with something both dastardly and devious when someone shouted from behind them.

"Harry? Harry, is that you?" God, a redhead. Of the burnt rust shade. Weasley. Pompous air. Flat face. Percival. "What in God's name are you doing here? La Triviata? Didn't think this was your cup of tea."

"Percy." Potter nodded sullenly, dipping his head as if bracing for impact. Several of them. And judging from the way Weasley was fluffing up his feathers and gearing up, Potter was being justifiably prepared. He gulped a deep breath. "I'm well. How are you?" The end of the question was slow. Careful. Tentative.

"Me? _Well_. Let me tell you, Harry, some of us are busy earning out living while you're lapping in luxury. The governor values my support, of course, I'm an irreplaceable member of his team." He thrust his self-important nose further towards the gold tipped chandelier. "Very important work. Changes people's _lives._ And it's _such_ a pleasure working under Governor Fudge. Such an amazing man. So many talents, I don't think I've ever met suc-"

"I'm sorry." Draco swayed back onto his feet and attached himself firmly against Potter's side, already fed up and bored of his ghastly, simpering fool. Practically bullying Potter too. Draco's territory and pride of place if ever there was one. "I don't believe we've been introduced. The name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I'm Harry's current partner."

"Oh...well...I didn't realise you were...bent, I mean, _that_ way..." Glee would be the emotion Weasley's sudden awkwardness and bumbling caused to bloom in his chest.

"I believe, Mr Weasley, that the politically correct term you're so eloquently searching for would be 'homosexual.' And as Harry's friend, so obviously concerned for his welfare as you are," Draco continued, his fingers sliding into Potter's hair and forcing his head gently around towards him; protective, "you'll be happy to know we're very happy together, quite content, thank you for asking." If sarcasm were a bad smell, Draco was positive the entire city would have been evacuated by that point.

"Yes, of course...I...well...I'm-"

"I know exactly who you are, however you are of little interest to me. My priorities are aimed rather higher. Now, if you don't mind, it's date night and I'm trying to broaden my lover's cultural horizons with the magic of Verdi. Ah, the first call. Do come along, Harry, the best seats are _up_ ," Draco vigorously swept his hand dangerously close to Weasley's nose. "Above everyone else," he snarled snidely and snaked his hand through Potter's arm and down to twine their fingers intimately.

Potter obediently slunk along behind him like a scolded kitten, leaving a passing nod to Weasley's stuttered "right then. I'll, erm, see you on Saturday, the, you know, er, wedding."

"You didn't have to do that," Potter hissed once they were a safe distance away, pinching his nails harshly into the skin of Draco's palm whilst trotting to keep up with Draco's extending stride.

"All part of the service, dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it just me that thought of the jellyfish in Bridget Jones' Diary during the Percy bit?


	7. Chapter 7

It was the third decisive thrust of significant weight onto his right foot, coincidentally evening out the distribution to his left, that finally broke him. Due to the current exercise, Potter's head was in easy range of his arm without even a full extension. Therefore, the slap to the tufts of pitch hair at the back of his head, much akin to how one would playfully tap a mischievous schoolchild when misbehaving, was of no inconvenience. In fact, Draco would even venture to stress that it accented the spring in his natural dancer's step.

"What?!" Potter exclaimed, stressed and flustered and smelling the vague scent of a man beginning the journey from deodorised and relaxed to sweating, overworked and healthily fit. The smell one encounters at ones neighbourhood gym that one knows should never be attractive but is the purest form of masculinity and hard work that one is drawn in to drown in it, a guilty pleasure, if you will.

"That softness you feel under your soles, Potter," Draco said, unnervingly calm and collected, "that would be my foot. Despite your curly hair and big eyes, I didn't take you for a prepubescent girl. They are the only exception to the rule. I must stress, again, the importance of the floor at this point in our meeting."

"Ha-bloody-ha, Malfoy. It's not my fault nobody's ever thought it important that I learn how to waltz before."

"Yes, your lack of the correct education should be attributed to your classless elders; we all have our fallacies." Potter's mouth opened, apparently appalled by something. An awkward silence descended, the faint background music of a sensual but decisive rhythm tinkling softly somehow adding to the building tension, before Draco caught the averted gaze and embarrassed flush and picked up on Potter's unfortunate lack of dictionary skills. "Fallacies, you pleb! Get your mind out of that gutter! Now, on my count!" If there was a squeak of discomfort at the end of his phrasing then they both ignored it for the greater good.

He slipped his palm to it's original place over Potter's before his recoil of disgust, nudging at his skin with his nail, as harshly as humanly possible with the shorten growth he had to work with, at the inevitable missing of the count.

"Honestly, Potter, you obviously couldn't lead a dolphin to water, let alone a partner around the dance floor," Draco huffed, skipping back impatiently, his confidence in his unconquerable plan to convince of their undying love waning a little in his chest, his heart beat rising under the pressure.

"Aren't you the seasoned dancer here? Shouldn't you be compensating or something?" Potter shrugged helplessly in front of him, his tatty jeans - an offence worth jail time in Draco's sought upon opinion - dragging noisily along the tiled floor as he shuffled and wriggled his way towards the window.

"Get back here, young man," Draco ordered sternly, and didn't he sound just like his mother god help him, "you are not being distracted by rush hour traffic or all things. Compensation! I might as well dance a salsa alone. Come here. I shall lead. You will-"

" _I'm_ not being the girl!" Potter interrupted venomously, his arms slamming into the air between them with great force and determination.

"What? Are you afraid, Potter? Honestly, anyone would think I'd asked you to pin the tail on the dragon. I'm not asking you to wear a tutu and skip around with a pair of fairy wings. I'm asking you to accompany me in an adult dance of affection where I shall attempt to whisk you around the dance floor and regale you as the love of my life in front of all your loved ones." Potter appeared hypnotised by his fairytale. "Devotion and all that rot," he added, to correct the lusty, besotted atmosphere that was rising. Dear Lord, he thought Potter had evidenced his passing of that phase with his seductive performance last night. A welcome change of tempo, to be sure.

"Afraid." He replied flatly, thankfully taking up the challenge, too much of an obvious one for Draco's liking but then Potter hadn't ever struck his as the brightest candle in the castle. "I don't think so. Whisk away, Mr. Malfoy." And there it was again, that smirk that looked slightly out of place on Potter's face and the confidence that intrigued Draco into stepping back into his personal space.

Of course. _Of course,_ Draco could never resist the opportunity to try and make Potter's cheeks flush. And the easiest way to accomplish this? Draco's most natural medium? His tongue, obviously.

He would be his own doom really.

"I need you to imagine..." he murmured as he closed the remaining distance between them, laying his hand gently, suggestively, against Potter's upper bicep, where he could feel the muscle already quivering, excited. "...that we have been lovers for many, many months."

He let his voice drop to a breathy whisper, husky and alight with the passion that made him so successful at his job. His fingers were a caress as they swept along the sleeve seam of Potter's black t-shirt, never quite touching skin, but close, so close. Teasing. "That you have made love to me every night this week."

He skimmed one hand gently down Potter's side, breezing over the light rises of his ribs through the thin cotton and stopped at the delicate taper of his waist where hips smoothed down to powerful thighs that could hold and pull and lock; that would look perfect in a tailor fitted suit that hugged the curve of his pert buttocks like a second skin.

"Remember how I grasp your need firmly with my come stained hand as we slide to the side," he murmured, first only stroking his ring finger against Potter's lowest rib, the bone a slight swell under muscle and sinew that made up an athletic grace Draco had never really paid attention to before. Then he applied a little more pressure and arced forward through his backbone into Potter's body and practically dragged him in a large, sweeping step to his right.

"And think of the way I suck you down," his breath tickled, hot against Potter's lobe as he leaned in intimately, "all the way down; deep, as you force me back." Potter stumbled forward and Draco nimbly hopped back on the balls of his feet, his fingers dancing as much as his feet as they stroked their way down Potter's arm and settling on his wrist. He could feel the raised hairs on his arm, alert as if struck by electricity. He could feel the dull thumping of Potter's quickening pulse that raced faster and faster the more Draco pressed the pad of his thumb against the vein.

"What about when I lay waiting for you, open and ready? Think about that when we glide back the other way." His lips nuzzled against the scratching stubble of Potter's cheek and he could feel the softness of his in return, glancing off his ear and making him shudder straight down his spine and he wondered who out of the two of them really felt like they had been abandoned to fend for themselves in the midst of a raging storm.

"And when-"

"When I rut into the juncture of your thighs," Potter growled suddenly, their eyes meeting and Draco was reminded of a tiger he'd once seen at the zoo, half starved and blazing. Feral. His palm was encased and he was thrust backward, his steps uneven and stuttering as Potter surged in front of him. They didn't circle. They didn't even follow a set pattern. They dominated, first one , then the other; a battle for control, their fingers squeezing and creaking in each others' grip. Potter's other hand was fisted tightly into the white of his shirt, soaked from the adrenalin and exhilaration of the game by now.

And their lips. They were so close. Agonisingly so.

When the music stopped. It was abrupt. Unexpected. And both of them halted jarringly, too close. Potter's cool puffs of breath slid half into Draco's mouth with their proximity. He didn't look abashed one bit. The ruddy red that stained his cheekbones had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with fervour and arousal. Draco should have been thinking about how his dancing master would have been appalled at his weak frame and abominable teaching methods. Instead, he was thinking about that _scent._ That overwhelming smell of Potter and want.

He should have been thinking that he had never been so excited on any other assignment, never been so involved or invested and about how Pansy was going to be such a smug-arse cow when she found out about their foreplay - because really, with all his real world intelligence, how could he call it anything else without downright lying to himself? - but instead he was wondering if Potter's mouth would taste of salt as much as the heat that permeated off of his flushed and gleaming skin.

It scarcely happened. No more than the first contact of strangers. Even less than a peck. Less than a school yard peck in a game of kiss chase with the threat of cooties. Barely there.

But it did. And there wasn't a sudden revelation or explosion of lust. The lust was already alive in his veins. There was only the thought that, yes, he could do that again but, no, he shouldn't tell Pansy Parkinson because she would be impossible to live with subsequently.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I have no excuse. Hope you all like it. Quick shout out to Emmagan, sorry I didn't get this finished for your birthday but consider this chapter dedicated to you, hope it doesn't disappoint. Unbeta'd as usual.
> 
> As always, feedback would be appreciated.
> 
> Raven

**Hooking Love**

Chapter 8

When Draco slid through the tinted glass doors to the club, it was with the memory of soft lips and the scent of lust flickering to the forefront of his mind. They should be no more than a work related thought process on the evolution of a sexual relationship and how to display it convincingly. Instead, he knew that Potter's lips were chapped and dry and still distressingly perfect. He knew the exact scent of him when he was aroused and raring, and he knew how it felt to see the green of his eyes darkening through the thick splay of his eyelashes while his muscles quivered under Draco's palm.

He should never have let himself relax, let his guard down, because now he was slipping further and further into a dangerous territory that was absolutely, unquestionably forbidden in his profession. There had never been a problem before - balding, upper-class twits and brutes with power issues and too much money to know what to do with just were not his personal flavour. He had never needed to wilfully remove himself from an emotional attachment to a client before simply because it had never occurred previously.

Potter was already sozzled by the time Draco caught sight of him on the other side of the bar. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes darted from one point - the pole dancer shimmying her tush on the gaudy stage - and the bar - where Weasley was crouched and guzzling at a pint of questionable colouring like a rabid mutt. The dishevelled state of his apparel reminded Draco of the way Potter's throat had rasped around the word 'rutted' and the dazed expression that came with the rapid flitting of his gaze was sickeningly sweet. It was quite possible Draco was in the process of cracking a tooth trying to disjoin his thought pattern.

He smoothed his palms down the front of his shirt - a plain, powder blue upon Pansy's suggestion although it had felt more like a demand - if only for a reason to hesitate because, obviously, he looked perfect already, anything less was laughable. The muscles of his stomach twitched under his fingers, nervous and excitable.

He ignored it wholeheartedly, a talent among his many that he was uncommonly superb at, and strode towards his client. After all, this was a job and he had work to do.

"Draco," Potter cooed on his approach, nudging himself halfway along the bench he was perched atop of. "I wasn't sure you were going to come." While it was true Draco was late it was a calculated move. Who wanted to be stuck exchanging tedious small talk with idiots below ones intellectual and social class through the sober hours? Especially when one could appear from the shadows when the liquor - bless the liquor, not for his partaking mind - finally flowed freely.

Potter's lips where flushed a blossoming rosy red already.

"I would never abandon you to these imbeciles, Harry," Draco found himself uttering as he slipped delicately - mindful of the dry cleaning bill he would be charged after a night sat in this establishment - into his designated seat. What he was actually thinking was more along the lines that this was a business transaction, Potter was paying for his time and he could not very well retreat like a whipped dog because of a little brushing of skin. Malfoy's did not admit defeat. Strangely, not wanting to be there was not on the list. That should have been a warning sign but he tactfully chose to ignore it.

The brush of thick denim against his slacks was harsh and rasping but he could still feel the endless warmth of Potter's strong thigh where they touched underneath the cloth.

His wits were not as sharp as he would have wished them to be for his first official meeting with the Weasel but then, he speculated with a swift glance in his direction where he was now claiming piggy back rides from anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity, he did not appear to be in a fit state to judge the legitimacy of his best friend's relationship at that particular moment. Draco did not take risks though when it came to his work and people had the most awful habit of remembering precisely what one wanted them to forget about a drunken previous night, be they sordid secrets or stolen kisses or fake relationships with escorts.

The weight of Potter's arm, slung artlessly across the back of his seat, was searing through the thin cotton of his shirt. Draco wished he had not turned his nose up at the black jacket Pansy had modelled for him now, but then he would not be able to feel the light, feathering touches of Potter's thumb on his shoulder, enticing and yanking his anxiety level up another notch. Something was going to go wrong for him rather soon. He didn't shuffle away.

Weasley's eyes were immensely wide when he finally deigned to approach them. His first act was to slop a half full pint down Draco's lap. The world paused long enough for his embarrassment to be known and then pelted on double speed like it had never happened. He controlled the blood itching to rush to his cheeks and locked his joints through Potter's petting session. When their eyes caught, held instantly, they were clear and mischievous and-

The little shit knew exactly what he was doing. Barely in the river to his ankles. Draco swore revenge immediately, darting his fingers to Potter's jaw and smoothing at a patch of stubble tenderly.

"No, Harry. It's all right. He's allowed to be uncoordinated on his last night of freedom," he said demurely, brushing the flesh of his mouth against Potter's ear, caressing, as he rolled the 'm' sound around the back of his tongue for a little too long. He allowed his eyes to skate back to Weasley, coy and fully with the knowledge that he was playing a game of seduction openly in front of him.

Potter's hair was thick with the scent of clean and the musk of his cologne and the heat beneath his palm simmered against his skin. When he had stroked said hand onto Potter's thigh was a mystifying question. He brushed down it gently, a teasingly soft caress, on his way to the pint glass Weasley had abandoned. The liquid was bitter when he sipped it but Potter had turned his head and the feel of his Adam's apple skimming Potter's nose was more intimate than it should have been. He caught Potter's narrowed eyes from between his lashes.

"You, erm, going to buy us a drink then, mate?" Weasley yelled boisterously, snapping the tension of their game. There was no comment to be made on Draco, for which he was grateful, it was usually a straightforward sign of either full-fledged acceptance or an issue that would never be discussed until a seriousness blanketed a relationship and the time to intervene had come.

Potter proceeded to get himself uproariously bamboozled after that.

He gyrated his way around the dance floor and Draco became more aware of his situation. The lack of alcohol in his system - he _was_ working and he could fake intoxicated merriness if he needed to - and his new position as chaperone enlightened him to the slope he was already plummeting down full kilter. Especially when Potter wanted to dance the pelvic hip thrust with him, closely, so close they might as well have been fucking under the strobe lights.

Especially, _especially_ , when Potter wanted to kiss him, nosing tentatively and ever so affectionately against the underside of Draco's jaw, across the screaming pulse in his neck, aiming for the lips Draco was busy chewing.

He managed to successfully weave his way through the night, miraculously still whole and without feeling like he had wrenched anything out of his own chest and trampled on it. Without conceding kisses and dodging stray hands intent on fondling. Or, at least, he thought he was successful, until-

"Come home with me?" Potter husked into his ear.

 


End file.
